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Shakespeare on Stage
American Shakespeare Center, 'Tis Pity She's a Whore. To Jun. 16, 2012.
The Shakespeare Theatre of New Jersey, Henry IV, Part One. To Jun. 24, 2012.
American Shakespeare Center, The Winter's Tale. To Jun. 16, 2012.
Folger Shakespeare Library, The Taming of the Shrew. To Jun. 10, 2012.
Atlanta Shakespeare Company, As You Like It. To Jun. 24, 2012.
More Performances…
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Henry IV, Part 2 (Quarto 1, 1598).

Author: William Shakespeare
Not Peer Reviewed
The Second part of
Staying no longer question.
Earle Ha? againe,
Said he, yong Harry Percies spur was cold,
105Of Hot-spurre, Cold-spurre, that rebellion
Had met ill lucke?
Bard. My lord, Ile tell you what,
If my yong Lord your sonne, haue not the day,
Vpon mine honor for a silken point,
110Ile giue my Barony, neuer talke of it.
Earle Why should that gentleman that rode by Trauers,
Giue then such instances of losse?
Bard. Who he?
He was some hilding fellow that had stolne
115The horse he rode on, and vpon my life
Spoke at a venter. Looke, here comes more news.
enter Mor-
Earle Yea this mans brow, like to a title leafe,
Foretells the nature of a tragicke volume,
120So lookes the strond, whereon the imperious floud,
Hath left a witnest vsurpation.
Say Mourton, didst thou come from Shrewsbury?
Mour. I ranne from Shrewsbury my noble lord,
Where hatefull death put on his vgliest maske,
125To fright our partie.
Earle How doth my sonne and brother?
Thou tremblest, and the whitenes in thy cheeke,
Is apter then thy tongue to tell thy arrand,
Euen such a man, so faint, so spirritlesse,
130So dull, so dead in looke, so woe begon,
Drew Priams curtaine in the dead of night,
And would haue told him, halfe his Troy was burnt:
But Priam found the fier, ere he, his tongue,
And I, my Percies death, ere thou reportst it.
135This thou wouldst say, Your son did thus and thus,
Your brother thus: so fought the noble Dowglas,
Stopping my greedy eare with their bold deedes,
But in the end, to stop my eare indeed,
Thou hast a sigh to blow away this praise,
140Ending with brother, sonne, and all are dead.
Mour.